


Best Served Cold

by sexysadie



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Basically Vanya dishing the dirt on her siblings, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drug Use, Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Reginald Hargreeves is a bad parent, Sibling Rivalry, Unconventional Families, Vanya's book, and being bitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexysadie/pseuds/sexysadie
Summary: Moments from the Hargreeves' childhood, seen through the (bitter, and understandably so) lens of Vanya's book.Including, but not limited to: Luther being insensitive, Klaus losing his shit and Ben dying.
Relationships: Vanya Hargreeves & Everyone
Comments: 10
Kudos: 90





	Best Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have other things in the works at the moment which I am trying frantically to finish before S2 comes along and ruins the canon I have established in my head! So here's something which I used as a bit of a warm up to get into my UA groove. Vanya is so so interesting, I love her POV and I hope I've done her justice!! :-)  
> Enjoy!!! <3

_Excerpt from chapter one_

Most people are surprised when they hear my surname. It seems to be burned into the consciousness of every twenty-something in America. _Hargreeves –_ for most it conjures up images of a monocle, or a domino mask, or argyle sweaters and shined shoes. My family name invokes the zeitgeist of the mid-2000s, back when every child was at their happiest while pressed against the TV, watching the latest exploits of the Umbrella Academy flash across the screen. There were action figures, costumes, branded lunchboxes, gaudy teen-magazine spreads and glitzy talk show appearances. For those heady few years, the Hargreeves name was inescapable.

There’s usually a joke – _oh, nice to meet you, Spaceboy –_ and then a question – _that’s an uncommon name, are you related to them somehow? –_ and then shock when I tell them that, yes, I am in fact the seventh sibling.

It seems almost impossible that a family so firmly fixed in the spotlight could have a member who very few have ever heard of. And yet, I find myself explaining my circumstances almost every time I meet somebody new. For as long as I can remember, I have been a footnote in the story of my own life, watching from afar, a stranger within my family.

I’ve considered changing my name before. Of course, I was legally Seven Hargreeves until I changed my first name to Vanya when I was eighteen. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to do it. While I may not be proud of the reputation of the Academy, I still have as much claim on my own surname as the rest of my siblings. Am I being petulant, perhaps? I like to think that I am taking back my childhood, despite feeling as though I had no right to it for the vast majority of my life. I was ordinary, and, in the eyes of my father, brothers and sister, that made me unworthy of the family name and the notoriety it brought.

The first time I can remember feeling different from my siblings was when I was around five. A delicate age – an average child might be finger-painting or playing in a sandpit or brushing a doll’s hair. However, my early years are conspicuously absent of any memories of toys. In fact, I can recall very little from toddlerhood at all. It’s likely that growing up in such a sterile environment, raised by a revolving door of nannies and isolated from the outside world, made my brain believe that there was simply nothing worth remembering.

When we started reaching grade-school age, though, our father decided us old enough to begin receiving specialised training. It was here that distinctions were drawn.

The abilities of my siblings had, by this point, revealed themselves in all of their splendour. Number One’s inhuman strength had proved useful in squabbles, and by now most of us had clocked onto and were a little afraid of his brutishness. Number Two could aim peas at you across the dinner table with frightening accuracy, and, almost as soon as she had learned to talk, Number Three had proved to be curiously persuasive. Often, I found myself running errands for her with no memory of why; I was delivering books to her and putting her clothes in the laundry while she watched over me, delighting in her power. Number Four was picking up on words none of us had ever heard, and at night the wall between our rooms did little to muffle the sounds of his conversations with people only he could see. The bright blue flash of Number Five’s spatial jumps became a mainstay around the house, as did the sight of one of Number Six’s tentacles trailing around a doorframe or rattling a window.

And me, Number Seven? I could do nothing. Nothing special, anyway.

I could read books that my siblings struggled with (my favourite was the Secret Garden). I had practised my handwriting until it was perfect, and I was getting very good at adding and subtracting. I always paid attention in class. My crowning achievement was being able to pronounce the word “millennium”.

But if I couldn’t teleport, or summon horrors from another dimension, or warp reality with a single word, what use was I?

I received no special training. Each of us was assigned a day of the week for it – Number One on Monday, Two on Tuesday, and so on – but there was no training on Sunday, and it always struck a discordant note. It was a stinging reminder of my inadequacy, and the hurt was as deep when I was five as it is now. One day, in his office, I begged my father to help me discover my power, for, up until that moment, I had been sure that I had one laying dormant within me. In my mind, it just didn’t make sense. If all of my siblings were able to do incredible things, why would I be any different? I told him about my adeptness at reading, and how I could even multiply numbers now. I pronounced the word millennium without stumbling over the syllables over and over, determined to prove my greatness. I _knew_ that I was special somehow, and that these attributes were signs of it.

My father, unmoved by my tearful protests, did not look up from his notes. “There is nothing special about you, Number Seven,” he said, in a tone that told me no further questions would be permitted.

Those words would come to embody my formative years. Our father never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was ordinary. It was a hard thing for a little girl to hear. If you’re raised to believe nothing about you is special, if the benchmark is extraordinary, what do you do if you’re not?

-

_Excerpt from chapter three_

As we grew older, the permanent dynamic between us children began to take shape. There were only seven of us, and we never interacted with anyone outside of the Academy. All of our emotions were bottled up in our little vacuum, like steam unable to escape a container, putting all of us under immense pressure. Unsurprisingly, this led to a household that was often fraught.

I’ve never been able to find any sort of logic behind my father’s numbering system. The general consensus is that he assigned us a number from most to least powerful, but we were numbered on the day he acquired us, and it seems unlikely that he could know the capabilities of an infant. (Besides, anyone who has witnessed the Horror in action is quick to dispel this myth.) Our father, ever the pragmatist, probably named us according to the order in which he bought us from our mothers. The numbers are arbitrary.

Despite this, Number One, as his number dictated, quickly established himself as the leader of the group. Nobody questioned it at the time. He was strong, the tallest of us, and clearly destined to be good-looking, even as an eight-year old. He was Dad’s favourite, and he had the loudest voice, so it just made sense that he should take charge. At mealtimes, he sat closest to our father, and you’d often hear him lecturing Two about his form while grappling or informing Six that if he wanted to gain better control over his power, he just had to focus more.

I never disliked One. I always found it hard to dislike any of my siblings – of course, I was bitter and hurt, still mourning my lack of powers, and I hated the situation I’d found myself in. But the same hatred never extended itself to my brothers and sister, despite the fact that they were constant reminders of my ordinariness.

Perhaps it was because we never interacted all that much, One and I especially. We were simply two fundamentally opposing forces. He was confident, capable and fiercely loyal to Dad, all things which I was not. I think he pitied me for my weakness, my hopelessly ordinary nature. He hung off every word our father said; each compliment coveted like a precious jewel and each sharp criticism a blow that left him subdued for days. And if Dad said that he was better than I was, well, then, it must be true.

All of us took our core lessons together: maths, English, history and the like, subjects which were considered mundane enough for me to be able to cope with. I was good at these, because while the others learned how to climb and spar and escape from zip-ties, I buried my nose in books, determined to outshine my extraordinary siblings. This was something One couldn’t understand. He had an unwavering self-belief and a natural ability to do well in most things without trying, whether they be physical or academic. Occasionally, he would sit and watch me during our free period before bedtime as I studied.

One evening, when we were eight or nine, he laid across the couch and peered over my shoulder as I read about the Second Triumvirate. “Who’s Cicero?” he asked me, pointing to his name on the page. He was eating an apple and sounded uninterested. I assumed that Two and Three, his usual companions, were elsewhere, and he was amusing himself by pretending to care about what I was doing.

I explained who he was, almost a little excited to be receiving attention from our self-appointed leader. At that young age, it wasn’t that I was purposefully excluded by the others, more than I was the de-facto black sheep – excluded from inside jokes or not privy to certain information, simply because I spent so much time away from them – but still, I grabbed desperately at any chance of inclusion. It was nice to feel useful. I told One about factions, proscription and other things that weren’t appropriate for kids our age to know about, while he listened with mild engagement.

“Seven,” he said, when I’d finished and looked at him expectantly, “why are you reading this?”

I faltered. “We have a history quiz next week.”

“Yes, I know that,” he said dismissively. “But we don’t need to know any of this. So, why are you studying it?”

I suddenly felt very small and stupid. They were feelings my siblings evoked in me often, but I still stung with shame each time as if it were the first. “It helps me to understand it better. Knowing the other stuff. I like knowing all the other things.”

 _I like knowing more than you._ That was the unsaid meaning behind my words, even if I didn’t know it then. If I had to spend my time feeling lesser than the others because they were able to do things I couldn’t, then I would excel at the things we all did together. I would know things that the others didn’t. I’d make myself special.

One’s brow furrowed, and I could tell he didn’t understand. “Whatever,” he said. “It won’t help you score better on the test. Is that it? Do you need some help studying?”

I felt my face heat up with irritation at this breathlessly casual display of arrogance. Although I’d just explained a high-level concept to him, One assumed that I needed help. He was the leader of the Umbrella Academy, so, naturally, he understood the topic better than I did, and it was his obligation to make sure the lesser members of his team performed up to standard. Feeling humiliated, I shook my head, shut my book and sulked off to talk with Five.

-

_Excerpt from chapter nine_

On our fourteenth birthday, the first cracks in the Umbrella Academy began to show.

I’m not suggesting that, before this, we all got along famously. The rifts between us had begun widening months, if not years, before; childish squabbles had festered into grudges, which threatened to evolve into full-blown hostilities. Five’s disappearance had left its awful mark. Diego had still not forgiven me for the incident in the courtyard and I continued to sleep with one eye open.

The thing was, despite the clear interpersonal difficulties, the Academy seemed to be held together by a vanity shared between the five of them. I began to notice it when they returned from missions – there was a collective breathlessness between them, a delight in their own wondrousness. When they bustled in through the door, ushered in by the click and roar of the press outside, I could hear them muttering and laughing to each other from my station at the top of the stairs. I could barely believe that, a day or two ago, Allison had rumoured Klaus into drinking toilet water because he’d stolen her eyeshadow, or that Ben had called Luther “dumb as a tree-stump” the evening before. Now, it was hair-ruffling and back-patting and celebration, as though the previous days hadn’t happened. I knew that they would be impossibly good-natured towards each other for a while, brought together to bask in the glory of their latest successful mission. I knew that this wouldn’t apply to me. I was too ordinary to understand.

So, although its members continued to slowly drift apart, the Umbrella Academy seemed relatively secure. It was clear that they were willing to put aside their feelings to keep receiving their weekly hit of fame. And, boy, were they getting it.

Having made its debut in 2002 to a stunned reception from the world, the Academy had swept aside all allegations of child endangerment and questionable ethics and continued on its bloody path to superstardom. It seemed that Dad was happy to let my siblings’ education in the more pedestrian subjects – maths and science, and so on – slide in favour of booking them onto every talk show and teen rag he could think of. I’d often walk into the living room to find them giggling over the latest article they starred in, gleefully ripping out pages to stick on their walls. Our weekly hour of television was now dedicated to reviewing the footage of their interviews and analysing how well they had answered the questions.

For a good few months, nobody could get enough of the Umbrella Academy. It was more than any thirteen-year-old could resist, and I _ached_ for it. Not all thirteen-year-olds are cut out for it, though. The Academy’s sudden rise to fame heralded the beginning of Klaus’ descent into drugs, and there was little we could do to stop it.

My brother’s power, and his personality, are undeniably morbid, and I’ll admit that, for a few years in my early teens, I was a little afraid of him. He was prone to fits of hysteria, which would abruptly stop and give way to wild, bright-eyed mania; his eyes often followed things the rest of us couldn’t see. He enjoyed lighting fires, stealing Mom’s clothes and singing loudly and obnoxiously at any opportunity. When we were kids, I found him amusing at best and creepy at worst, especially when he’d frighten us with descriptions of the ghosts he could see around us. In the weeks following Five’s disappearance, my newfound fear of death and all things relating to it made me skittish around Klaus, frightened that one day he might confirm what I was convinced was true – that my favourite sibling had died, and his spirit was wandering the Academy.

Klaus’ oddness was such that his drug use went unnoticed for a few months. It was easy to pass off his strange new behaviour as quirks in his personality, and, besides, our sheltered existence didn’t allow for any discussion of such things. It was due to this that Klaus’ worsening issue came to a spectacular head on the cold, wet afternoon of our fourteenth birthday.

When I say birthday, I mean a birthday in the Hargreeves household. Forget your notions of cake, balloons and streamers, because these were things our father considered frivolous and unnecessary. Think, instead, of a corporate board meeting at the beginning of a new financial quarter – eight stone-faced people sitting around a table, discussing the events of the year gone by, and how they are going to maximise their profits going forward. As far as Dad was concerned, our birthday wasn’t a cause for celebration, but instead an opportunity to chew us out for the things we hadn’t managed to achieve yet.

On our ninth birthday, he made Ben cry with a few sharp words about his lack of progress in taming the Horror. I think you can guess why I don’t celebrate birthdays, even now.

This particular year, there was much to discuss. The Academy had been introduced to the public the previous winter, and since then their missions had come in thick and fast. I was rarely filled in on the details of their adventures, instead gleaning whatever information I could from the radio news while sat to lunch with Mom. As such, this year’s meeting was something of a treat, and I listened raptly while our father poked holes in my siblings’ capabilities with a burning spite.

Luther took his criticism as he always did, solemn-faced, eyes trained firmly on Dad’s face, nodding when he felt it was necessary. I watched as each snide mention of his failures made contact with him like a physical blow. I knew that he would sulk for a week.

Diego’s rapidly widening rebellious streak had been making itself apparent over the last few months; he was presently flicking a penknife open and closed between his clasped hands, resting on the table for all of us to see. Momentarily, Dad’s lips pursed in disapproval, and I saw Diego’s mouth twitch upwards in the faintest smile as he caught the expression in the corner of his eye. It seemed to me that the only thing that ever made my surly brother feel inclined to do anything other than scowl was winding up either Luther or our father (or, preferably, both at once). It made sour, jealous knives twist in my stomach. How could he be offered acceptance, only to throw it back into Dad’s face?

Predictably, Allison received a mostly glowing report – her powers were coming along nicely, but she apparently spent too much time worrying over her appearance – but I was abruptly uninterested in what our father had to say.

Across the table from me, Klaus had fallen dead asleep at the table. I blinked and looked twice to make sure I wasn’t seeing it incorrectly, but, at my side, Ben had noticed too, and his questioning look confirmed it to me. Diego’s display of insubordination was one thing, but for Klaus to make it so blatantly clear how little he cared about this annual tradition was just something else! I’d known him to be unhappy with the way our father treated him, and his impression of Dad was in equal parts cruel and hilarious, but it just didn’t sit right with my estimation of him.

My eyes flickered to Dad. He hadn’t noticed yet, but a small, vindictive part of me hoped that he would. Now one of my extraordinary siblings might feel a little of the stinging shame I felt every day of my life.

“Number Four!” came our father’s sharp voice, slicing through his commentary on Allison’s inflection on the letter A as suddenly and cleanly as a bullet. Klaus didn’t stir and continued to drool onto the table. Dad straightened himself up, and instructed Luther to wake him; Luther gave Klaus a firm shaking, which did the trick. Klaus woke with a snort to six pairs of eyes watching him and gave us a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he said, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His movements seemed slow and sluggish, as if he’d been hit over the head. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

It could have been true, as I often heard Klaus murmuring through our shared wall deep into the wee hours or awakening from nightmares with a muffled shout. But Klaus’ pupils were huge, his speech was slurred, and it was clear that he wasn’t suffering from sleep deprivation. He was high as a kite. The realisation hit me hard.

Our father seemed to have come to this conclusion too, and was peering at Klaus, not with anger, but with a sort of determined curiosity. “Explain yourself, Number Four,” he demanded, and Klaus’ head lolled on his neck as he turned to face the head of the table. He smiled lazily and the rest of us watched him with bated breath, our minds reeling. It was just unthinkable that our brother could step so far out of bounds so unexpectedly. All those years training to oppose the deplorables of society, to rise above the rabble and embody this superhuman ideal, fit, quick, clever and _perfect_. And here was Klaus, barely able to string a sentence together.

The anger that was becoming so familiar flared in me once again. He had the chance to be someone special, and he’d throw it all away chasing a high? My siblings enjoyed every benefit that came with their powers, and yet they acted as though they were curses rather than blessings. They were so spoiled, so vain, that they couldn’t put their own problems into perspective. I wondered if Klaus knew how quickly I would have traded places with him.

I doubted Klaus knew much at that moment, however. He squinted at Dad, rubbed sleepily at his eyes and said, “I don’t know. Feels nice, I guess.”

“You should know better than to poison yourself in this way,” our father said sternly. “This is disgraceful behaviour. You will not be receiving free time this Saturday.”

Something strange happened to Klaus’ face. For a split second, he looked absolutely mutinous, and I was gripped by the strange idea that he might launch himself over the table and try and throttle our father. But then, the calm, drugged expression slid over his features again. He looked our father in the eye and said, “Dad, I truly don’t give a fuck.”

To this day, I have never seen someone move as fast as Luther did in that moment. In a flash, he had Klaus by the collar of his shirt; Klaus was dangling a foot off the ground, struggling weakly against Luther’s grip; Ben had started so violently that he had fallen halfway off of his chair and Diego was cackling with laughter. I could do nothing but stare. Never had I heard any of us use language like that before, not even to each other, let alone to Dad. Mom helped Ben back up to the table as Luther lowered Klaus back to the floor at our father’s request, both boys glaring at each other, hackles raised.

“Apologise!” barked Luther, sounding every inch Daddy’s little authoritarian.

“Fuck you, Luther,” Klaus slurred, apparently liking the weight this new word carried, and it was only Allison’s hand on Luther’s arm that stopped him from punching Klaus into the parquet flooring. “I’m sick of this stupid fucking place! I’ll do what I fucking want! This is the first time I’ve been able to hear myself think in fourteen years and you think I give a shit about _free time_?”

It was all wrong. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. We were supposed to sit and take our criticism, and then bustle off into the kitchen to receive a cookie and a hug from Mom, perhaps a small gift from Pogo. It was like living in a parallel universe. I hadn’t ever seen any of my siblings behave like this before, and now that I had, it was like someone had pulled away a curtain concealing some awful truth. We – they – were supposed to be the perfect children, following orders and saving the world one foiled art heist at a time, not drug-taking, swearing, squabbling kids flinging insults at each other across the dining-room table. I mark this now as the moment I first saw past my father’s smokescreen. The first of many instances that taught me that there was a world outside the carefully constructed one I’d lived in for so long.

At some point, Allison must have rumoured Klaus into calming down, because Mom was able to usher him out of the room with few protests. I watched him go, stunned, and I swear I heard the Academy’s funeral knell echo through the room.

-

_Excerpt from chapter thirteen_

The last time I saw my brother Ben was the day before his death. It was a Tuesday, and we were spending our free time together in his room, chatting idly with each other and wasting time before lights out. I have made a point of remembering every part of our final interaction in minute detail to this day. A soft breeze rippled the curtains, and my metronome was ticking, forgotten, in a slow rhythm, ticking along to the sounds of birdsong outside – I had been playing Mendelssohn, Ben’s favourite. It was a little cold. Ben’s tie was hanging loose around his neck and he was passing a marble between his hands as we talked.

I hold this moment close to my heart, though remembering it still causes an ache in my gut that I haven’t been able to shake in the six years since it started. The enduring friendship between me and Ben had been my saving grace after the loss of Five four years prior. Though still fiercely close with Klaus, Ben always had time for me, and we spent many evenings just like this one, swapping book recommendations, poking fun at our siblings and simply taking solace in each other’s company. I don’t know if Ben ever knew how much I valued him. At times, it felt like he was the only other sane person in that house. It seems obvious, now, that it was just unavoidable that he’d be taken away from me.

On this particular evening, Ben seemed a little withdrawn, which wasn’t unusual for him. Though he was sharp and good-humoured, with a talent for puns and a fierce tendency towards sarcasm, there were days where he’d be white-faced and silent. He was fighting to keep the Horror inside, and it sapped him of his energy.

We didn’t talk about anything momentous, though I often feel as though our final conversation should have been something poignant – plans for the future, perhaps, or a reflection on the upbringing that would claim Ben’s life the very next day. Instead, we meandered aimlessly through mundane topics like we did every other evening, unaware that time was slipping through our fingers, tick-tocking away with every beat of the metronome. I complained about something Diego had said the day before, and Ben told me about a news broadcast he’d seen on the television, something about the president’s aide. “They’ll do well to recover from that,” he said knowledgably, as I nodded cluelessly, only half-listening. As I picture us, sat on the bed together, frittering time away, I want nothing more than to outstretch my hand and guide my younger self forward, reach into her mouth and pluck out those forbidden words. I love you.

I was woken early the next morning by the bell. It was still pitch dark, so I thought nothing of it, turned over, and shut my eyes again. The thudding of my sibling’s feet lulled me, and I remember only sleep-snatches of their voices as I drifted off. Ben’s voice, outside my door. I can’t recall what he said.

When I woke again, this time to the bell sounding in my sunlit room, I rose and dressed lazily, knowing that my father would not be present to reprimand me for being late. I had always loved having the house to myself, its winding corridors and cavernous rooms deserted. I had Mom’s full attention and I could play my violin in the living room where the acoustics were best, all safe in the knowledge that there were no critical eyes following me wherever I went. As such, my mood was buoyant as I came to breakfast, well beyond caring that my siblings had left me behind.

Mom had pancakes waiting, so I ate and then brought the violin downstairs. I played freely, a little of this and that, as Mom opened the windows to allow the warm summer air in. I remember feeling so happy, so content, as my wrist moved fluidly and the smell of the gardens outside drifted through the room, totally and painfully unaware of what was to come.

At around ten o’clock, the tell-tale hubbub of noise from the press that had been growing all morning announced the return of my siblings with an explosion of voices and flashing cameras. The door opened with a click, but I didn’t put the violin away, determined to make the most of my solitary morning. Perhaps Ben might like to hear the new song I was learning? As I played, I heard them shuffle in, the sound of their boots on the floor mingling with cries from the reporters leaking in through the open door.

_What happened, Mr. Hargreeves?_

_Do you deny allegations of manslaughter?_

_When will the funeral be?_

_Spaceboy, do you feel responsible for your brother’s death?_

My hand froze mid-note. I felt as though someone had suddenly tightened a length of piano wire around my throat. I heard my father say something short and stern to the mass outside, and then the door slammed shut with a resounding bang. It dawned on me, slowly, sickly, that I hadn’t heard a peep from any of my siblings, just silence, punctuated by the odd sniffle or rustle of clothing.

As if in a dream, my feet brought me to the doorway to the entrance hall. It all felt very Schrödinger, as if, in that moment, my brother, whichever he was, was both alive and dead, and neither at the same time. My heart was thudding, and I felt sick and untethered from the ground. I immediately picked out Allison, with her face pressed into Luther’s chest, and my father, who, for the first time I could remember, lacked any of the cold purpose that he usually wore, standing still and pensive. The two boys were facing away from me, and my eyes raked over them desperately, as if the sinking sensation in my stomach hadn’t already told me which of my brothers hadn’t made it home. One was too tall – Klaus – and the other’s shoulders too broad – Diego. The bottom of the world fell out.

This is a moment that plays on repeat in my head while I try to fall asleep: the smell of my brother’s blood and Allison’s tiny noises of grief, my father stood there looking like an old man who’d just realised he wasn’t as infallible as he’d thought. If the Umbrella Academy had been crumbling before, now it was little more than rubble and dust.

Luther noticed me first. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. His chin was wobbling, and I thought that I might see him cry for the first time in my life, but then he looked at our father for permission before guiding the inconsolable Allison off towards the bedrooms. Diego seemed to take this as a cue, and he strode past me to where I knew Mom would be without even a sideways glance, his jaw set like steel and fists clenched at his sides. That left Klaus, who turned, revealing a reddish-brown stain on his front that made a wave of nausea surge up my throat. I pressed a hand to my mouth, abruptly certain that I would be sick, right there, on the floor. Klaus offered me the faintest ghost of a rueful smile. “Ben’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly, and studied his hands, as if only just noticing that they were dark with blood. “So… I’m gonna go and take a bath.”

I stood in silence then, frozen in the doorway with my violin in one hand and my bow in the other, staring at my father, who had not moved either. My blood was thumping sluggishly through my veins. Somehow, I had known this was coming, because I was consumed by a sickening sense of conviction in that moment; my fears had come to life in the form of another brother snatched away from me, another casualty in the awful game my father orchestrated. Another kick in the stomach that I was supposed to recover from.

“There will be no lessons today, Number Seven,” my father said shortly. His brows were pulled together, not in sorrow or anger, but as if he had just been given a particularly difficult puzzle to solve. I hated him then, more than I have ever hated anyone in my life.

The days and weeks following Ben’s death are something of a blur in contrast to the vivid memories I have of the event itself. As I’m sure most people remember, there was extensive media coverage, more than the Academy had received during its four-year tenure so far. It was a little while before Allison could be convinced to venture outside and rumour away the reporters who camped on the sidewalk, and I would often look out onto the street and see ordinary people stood gawking up at the building. In the blink of an eye, the Academy had become a great morbid landmark commemorating the violent death of a seventeen-year-old, and people couldn’t get enough of it. As you might slow down to stare at a car crash on the highway, those who had once worshipped my father and siblings now enjoyed cruising by the Academy to stare through the windows, fascinated by our grief.

Not that anyone saw any of it, though. The house felt like a mausoleum, cold and quiet, exacerbated by the fact that none of us were allowed to leave. I retreated into myself for weeks, emerging from my room only to eat. I couldn’t play, because the ticking of my metronome made me cry. I couldn’t speak to my siblings, because they didn’t want to speak to me. I couldn’t even seek comfort from Mom, because I could no longer bear the sight of her wide, glowing, mechanical smile.

My siblings coped with grief about as well as I did. Luther and Diego fought like children, stopping only for Ben’s funeral, though even then they still shot each other nasty glares from their positions either side of the courtyard. It made me sick that they couldn’t put aside their pathetic squabbling even in the wake of a tragedy.

Allison was packing bags. She had always wanted more than what she already had, I knew that much, and it seemed as though she was going to take her chance while she could. I wasn’t surprised in the least when she announced over breakfast one morning that she had an audition for a movie in LA, and her flight was booked for the next morning. At least _she_ would get her happy ending.

It was now completely implausible that you might find Klaus not slurring, covered in body glitter and attempting to draw the attention of anyone within earshot. His new gimmick was pointing over your shoulder and proclaiming that Ben’s ghost was there, as if we didn’t all know that his drug use disabled his powers altogether. I never pitied Klaus, as some people might. I think I lost the ability to do that the moment he offered to tell Ben I loved him in exchange for dope money.

In the end, there was really nothing connecting us all. We were just strangers living under the same roof, destined to be alone, starved for attention, damaged by our upbringing and haunted by what might have been. We all wanted to be loved by a man incapable of giving love. The Umbrella Academy was finished, and before the time our eighteenth birthday came that October, we’d all gone our separate ways.


End file.
